


221B: Notebooks

by AprilFool



Series: 221B [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Autistic Sherlock, Bees, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Child!Lock, Childhood Memories, Christmas, Confused Sherlock, Cute, Doctor John Watson, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff, Hurt Sherlock, John Watson In Love, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Nostalgia, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sexual Inexperience, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson in Love, Sherlock in Love, Sociopathic Sherlock, Stuffed Toys, Synesthesia, Virgin Sherlock, child!mycroft, notebooks, sherlock's collections, soft sherlock, wish list
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 10:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10875243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilFool/pseuds/AprilFool
Summary: Sherlock collects notebooks. They make him feel nostalgic.He starts a notebook about John.Also he needs to investigate his feelings for John.





	221B: Notebooks

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on writing down the entries from Sherlock's old notebooks mentioned in this story :)  
> Also I'm already working on the third part.   
> Thank you for reading.

Sherlock has 76 filled notebooks.  
A6, blank, black, hard cover, same company. Each is labelled on the spine and front cover.  
They are tucked away in the bottom drawer. When he had not yet built his mind palace, he wrote everything down into these little notebooks. He was merely five years old.

Sherlock isn’t much of a nostalgic person. But now, as he sits on the floor, cross legged, he grabs the first one in line, labelled _1982_ , opens it. The pages are yellowed on their edges. He has used graphite pencil back then, his handwriting crooked.  
Something is taped on the first page.  
A hair. Red, thick, five centimetres.  
Redbeard, Irish Setter, the scrawly description says.

There is a white sting inside Sherlock, between his heart and stomach. He gasps. He can see him now, feel him.  
Redbeard. His dog. His best friend.  
They are at the sea. He smells the salty water. His trousers are already wet from splishing and splashing. Redbeard shakes his body, little drops coming out of his fur. Mycroft screams, but Sherlock laughs. He dances and jumps around, always followed by his dog.  
His sight blurs.

When he can see sharp again he lays in his bed in his old child’s room, Redbeard at his feet. The dog is sleeping. Snoring while he dreams. It must be early in the morning, the sun starts to rise.  
Sherlock looks around. There is his book shelf, filled with stories about travellers, adventurers and explorers. On his desk is a collection of old jam jars, now home to several insects.  
There is a knock and the door opens. In comes Mycroft.  
“Are you awake?”, he whispers.  
Sherlock sits up. “What is it?” He makes room for his brother to join him in his bed.  
“I have something for you”, Mycroft says. He hands Sherlock a little black something.  
Sherlock inspects the object. “It’s a notebook.”  
“It’s for all your observations and adventures. You can write them down now.”  
Sherlock smiles, his front teeth are missing. He hugs his elder brother.  
The sight is blurring again, Sherlock rubs his eyes.

When he looks up he is back in his room in Baker Street, the old notebook still in his hands.  
Memories. They don’t cross his mind too often.  
He flicks through the pages of his very first notebook.  
  
Redbeard’s meals + eating habits  
Redbeard’s reaction to different animal noises  
Redbeard’s weight before and after taking a walk  
Twenty-seven insects I found in our garden  
Bees Act 1980  
Honey bees  
Four facts on beekeeping  
Mycroft’s eating habits  
Books to read  
Words I like  
Mum’s eating habits  
Dad’s eating habits  
Effects of sugar on me vs. Mycroft  
Dog breeds in our neighbourhood  
A fifth fact on beekeeping  
Newspapers Dad reads

Sherlock’s heart is indulging in reminiscences.  
He remembers himself scribbling down his notes, taking the little book everywhere.

He grabs the second one. It starts with his wish list for Christmas 1982.  
Bees  
Bicycle  
Books  
Microscope

A lot of the following pages are filled with somewhat semi-scientific drawings of bee wings, snowflakes and dog hair.  
It is 1983 yet and Sherlock has just gotten his first microscope for Christmas. Though he hasn’t been gifted bees. At least not real bees.  
Sherlock thinks of the plush bee that sat inside the branches of the Christmas tree. It was more of a big striped ball than a bee. Podgy, saggy, soft. Mycroft and his Mum had gotten it for him. Although not alive he loved this bee to death.  
It must be in a box, hidden in his parent’s attic, Sherlock thinks. Maybe he should ask his Mum to send it to him.  
He feels a sudden urge to have it near him.

Sherlock puts the notebook aside. He is confused. There is a feeling inside him he cannot term perfectly. Usually he doesn’t have a lot of feelings. Most of the time he is somewhat neutral. He also knows excitement, curiosity (is that a feeling or more like a state of mind?), a bit of happiness and sadness in equal parts. Forlornness.  
But a few weeks ago something started to drag inside him. Since then he feels a longing now and then.  
He has to investigate this. _Mental note_.

Sherlock puts the two notebooks back inside the drawer. He digs around. Finds a stack of blank books. Takes one. Closes the drawer and shuts his memories. He takes himself off to bed, grabs a biro (not a pencil anymore, although he likes pencils) (black ink, he has the habit of just writing in black), opens the notebook. The spine makes a cracking noise. Sherlock loves notebooks. It’s always a pleasure to start a new one.  
He always leaves the first page blank. Then he writes down. Today’s date. The title. _John_.  
A whole notebook on John.  
He puts an index on the next two pages. He numbers every page in the book.  
Then he starts with facts about John.

Name: John Hamish Watson  
Birthday: 31.03.1974  
Height: 1m69  
Eye colour: Blue  
Hair colour: Blond  
Scars:

Sherlock pauses.  
How many scars are there he doesn’t know of? He has seen the big one a bullet has left on John’s shoulder. He has seen the three streaks on his arm. He has noticed the little one right above his eyebrow.  
But he has never seen John’s whole body.  
Sherlock shivers.  
There is the tearing again. Somewhere near his lower abdomen. But also right in his stomach.  
He comes down with something, perhaps.  
_Mental note_ : Observing John in the shower.  
Sherlock gasps.  
The tearing is almost painful now. A white and pink streak. Sherlock shakes his head.  
He turns to a blank page. Titles it.

Questions:  
How many scars does John have?  
Why does John use a different email address for a dating website?  
Why does John use a dating website?  
Why does John hide his new email address?  
Why is John not predictable anymore?

And further:  
Why did my body focus on John’s touch so much when he bandaged my foot today?

Sherlock has to examine himself.  
Way of proceeding:  
Letting John change the bandage.  
Observing John’s hands: When do they touch my skin? Where do they touch my skin?  
Observing myself: When does my body react? Where does my body react? How does my body react? What do I see when he touches me (synesthesia)? What do I feel when he touches me? Where do I feel it? What do I think when he touches me?

Sherlock glances at his clock. 4 pm. He has to wait until 8 pm. At least. But he wants to make his observance now. He gets up.  
If his wound bleeds through the gauze the bandage needs to get changed. The plan is to step on the edge of a book, ripping the wound open again. Sherlock hesitates, holding Gray’s Anatomy, that he has grabbed from his nightstand, in his hands. He has to consider the pain. Has to consider that the pain, again, is so visible that it outshines the touch. But he needs to know.  
So he tosses the book on the floor, crashes his foot onto it. Screams out.  
Like lava the pain rushes up his leg.  
Sherlock collapses on the bed, muffles his groans with his pillow. Bites into it. Breathes in, breathes out, until the orange splinters fade into darkness.  
He counts.  
180.  
He shifts, sits up.

The white gauze has turned red and wet. Sherlock is pleased.  
“John!” He waits.  
The pain is centred around the wound. So it should be possible to investigate the touch.  
“John!”, Sherlock yells again.  
His bedroom door opens.  
“You alright?”  
“I’m bleeding again”, Sherlock says.  
John is concerned, kneels down in front of his flatmate. Looks at the soaked bandage, looks at Sherlock. “What have you done?”  
Sherlock nods to the book on the floor. “Stepped on it.”  
John isn’t convinced. The book is the only thing laying on the floor. But he has no time to think about this now.  
Sherlock straightens his back. Has to focus now.  
John starts unwrapping the foot. Doesn’t touch Sherlock one single time.  
“Sherlock, that is worse than before!” John looks shocked. His fingers linger over the wound as if he is too afraid to touch the foot. “How could this happen? The cut is even bigger now! You need to get stitches!”  
Sherlock makes a noise. He doesn’t want to get stitches.  
“Can you do it right here?”, he asks.  
John nods. Gets his doctor’s kit for the second time today.

“It’s the easiest when you lay down on the floor and put your foot into my lap”, he orders.  
Sherlock is eager to do so.  
The pain is an orange pond.  
And then, finally, John touches Sherlock’s skin around the ankle.  
A white lightning dashes through him, doesn’t invade every vein, but strikes between his legs.  
Sherlock sucks in a big amount of air. His eyes widen. The lightning has inflamed something deep inside him that’s hot and burning right now.  
Sherlock shifts on the floor. His groin feels uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time. He suddenly is aware of the feeling of the textile on his skin around his crotch in a way he hasn’t experienced many times before.  
_Mental note_.  
But he can’t think straight.

And then the burning extinguishes. A pink spike appears. Hurts. Sherlock can’t suppress a whimper.  
He opens his eyes, hasn’t realised they were closed before.  
“Sorry”, John whispers, who has just made the first stitch. Three more to go.  
He looks into Sherlock’s eyes from above, and Sherlock can feel an afterglow inside him.  
_Mental note_ : John’s eyes aren’t just blue, they are a bit greyish too.  
How could Sherlock not have noticed this before? He is astonished at himself.

Another spike.  
Sherlock flinches and John moves too as if he is able to feel Sherlock’s pain.  
With his thumb John caresses Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock closes his eyes again, focuses on the small strokes. Light blue.  
“I’m nearly finished”, John says. “And after that you stay in bed and don’t move even the slightest. How can one manage to rip open his foot twice a day?”  
Sherlock chuckles.  
“Not funny”, John murmurs. “Finished.”  
“I haven’t felt the last stitches.”  
“Seems like I am the master of the needle.” John wraps Sherlock’s foot in a new bandage, then he tidies his stuff. He bends down to help his flatmate to get up.  
Sherlock feels the warmth of John’s body. Ever so slightly he presses himself against John’s side.  
“Does it still hurt?”, John asks.  
“A bit.”  
Sherlock gets pushed into his bed.  
John even pulls the duvet over his flatmate. “Call me if you need something.”  
John grabs his doctor’s kit and wants to leave.  
“John?”  
John turns around.  
“Thank you”, Sherlock says.  
John opens his mouth. But no words leave his lips. He just nods.  
Sherlock smiles. He has absorbed John’s warmth, feels cosy and pleasant. Later he will call for John to get a cup of tea. But for now he has to think about his strange feelings. There is still a lot to investigate.


End file.
